


Moral of the story.

by smartforholmes



Series: Love and lost. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Loss, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26203441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartforholmes/pseuds/smartforholmes
Summary: A little sequel for my first story "Love me just as much", based on the Mystrade Monday prompt #5 "I told you not to fall in love with me."Enjoy.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Love and lost. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902919
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Moral of the story.

_Some mistakes get made, that's alright, that's okay._

The rain poured heavily onto the chill and gloaming London roads, the forecast showed a disturbing number of thunderstorms occurring for the rest of the week starting that Friday. People ran across the streets, covering themselves up with anything they had in hand; a notebook, a purse, some posh boys with old iPads, some lucky people carried their umbrellas.

Mycroft Holmes was one of those. But he walked recklessly through the streets, his hair and elegant suit soaking wet every passing second. People yelled at him, to use the umbrella he had in his hand, or to just get inside a store to shelter from the storm; the man continued walking, not caring or not hearing the pleadings and irritated gleams transients provided.

His goal was clear, and there was no climate or statements that could prevent him from arriving as soon as possible, the mentality of certain death if he didn't. His steps are hurried, but not too much, careful to not slip and fall in public. The clouds get darker as the minutes pass by, and the precipitation seems to not stop any time soon.

A few meters away, Mycroft spots the entrance of his destination, a grim smile staining his lips. He clutches the handle of the umbrella, searching for balance as the closeness to _that_ place destroys him. It's a matter of a few steps with his long legs to stand in front of it.

Without wasting any more time, he strode inside, his eyes never leaving the muddy terrain. His brain knows the way perfectly, and it doesn't take his full notoriety to arrive. Without further thought, he stopped the bottom of a gravestone in front of his shoes.

His eyes travel slowly from bottom to top. The words engraved in the stone, knowledgeable now, still insanely hurtful.

1963 – 2018

«Bravery is not a quality of the body. It is of the soul.»

Gregory Lestrade

The tears don't take long to start falling helplessly from his weary eyes, his chest tight with emotion and despair that hasn't left his body. How long has it been?

 _3 months, 19 days, 5 hours, 34 minutes and 21... 22... 23._ **_Stop_ ** _. 26 seconds since you murdered him._

One's mind can be our archenemy, is it not?

Mycroft feels his knees buckle but stands strong in front of the gravestone. His eyes look up at the sky, and with his hand now open flat upon his mouth, he allows himself to start sobbing. Painful, endless, and awful sobs wreck his body hard, a well-deserved vindication from the Universe for taking the life of an extraordinary human being away.

He tries to compose himself to deliver the words that have kept him awake for days now, failing abruptly. 46 seconds later a sigh escapes from his mouth, enough to allow him to speak.

“Gregory,” His name, common in the country and easy to pronounce, carves a hole on his heart. “It has been some time, doesn't it?” Licking his lips, Mycroft continued. “You know... _Knew_ better than any other person how lousy I was with emotions, and yet, you stuck by my side selflessly. Never... Never expecting anything in return.”

_Except...? The irritating voice in his head, that ironically similitude Sherlock's, echoed._

“Except reciprocated feelings. That I could not find myself able to accept, to admit like Sherlock once said.” His eyes observed Mahatma Gandhi's quoted words, causing him to cringe with emotion. “I wished I had your bravery, Gregory. You wouldn't be lying 6 feet underground.”

His hands shake, so does his shoulders and legs; Mycroft vetoes to leave everything and go back home to get drunk _again._

 _“_ ** _I told you not to fall in love with me!_** _”_ His voice breaks and his knees give up, hitting the floor with a loud ‘thud!’. His hands grasp a handful of mud, his forehead bumping into the cold gravel. “I told you I was not worthy of your marvelous heart but you... You selfish bastard!” His knuckles, now white, bang the tombstone harshly. “It should have been me! Why did you jump in front of me? Why did you save me?! I lost **everything** because of you! **_I lost you, and you were my everything_**...”

The resentment dies in his heart, quickly replaced by despair. Immense thunder roars on his back, and lightning illuminates Gregory's name like a divine blessing. He chuckles but shatters down immediately after. Mycroft sobs out loud, not caring if a guard comes to tease him or haul him away, the soreness in his chest increasing.

 _“People fall in love with the wrong people sometimes...”_ Holmes whispers, his voice shaky and throat tight. “They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” A pair of voices echoed far away from him, the same ones he has evaded for the last couple of weeks. "and still, I'd rather never love again than to live in a world without you.”

Mycroft grabs his umbrella, pulling out the sword, leaving the small revolver on his right hand. The same voices get closer, but he can't bring himself to care.

His hand moves automatically, the muzzle of the handgun gently landing on his temple, just then, Mycroft realizes his hands are not quivering anymore.

“Some mistakes get made... That's alright...” He chokes on the words, tears falling again. “That's okay, in the end, it's better for me...” A finger lays on the trigger, lingering patiently to pull it and end it all. “ **That's the moral of the story.** ”

A pair of hands grab his arm and twirl it, sending the gun away from him. He wrestles, his eyes closed while a number of curses leave his mouth, pleading to let him terminate his suffering. The scent that embraces him, and the long but strong arms are insanely familiar, so he lets go.

In the arms of his baby brother, Mycroft decides he won't give up.


End file.
